


What It Could Be

by ProjectKITT



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProjectKITT/pseuds/ProjectKITT
Summary: Already in a committed relationship with Ultra Magnus, Ratchet suddenly finds himself drawn to a mech he just met. Pre-Movieverse.





	1. Chapter 1

Ratchet was not sure how it happened, really. But then again, how did anything happen? How much of one's life was determined by things that were outside of their control?

Well, one could argue that the choice of one's consort was not outside the realm of their control. But sometimes, Ratchet felt that it had been. Otherwise, why could he not answer the question of how he had ended up here?

It had just been a series of happenstances and random occurrences, and although Ultra Magnus had not been anything but good to him, Ratchet somehow felt that something was... missing. It was like there was always some kind of distance between himself and Ultra Magnus. Like he somehow could not fully connect with Ultra Magnus on a deeper level.

Why that would be, Ratchet also did not know. It was not that he did not want to confide in Ultra Magnus, or that he had not already done so on so many occasions, but there were times when Ratchet just could not bring himself to tell Ultra Magnus what was on his mind. Just like now.

He knew that Ultra Magnus knew he was awake. He also knew that Ultra Magnus had picked up on his unrest in the last few orns. He had even asked him about it, but rather than tell Ultra Magnus the truth, Ratchet had simply blamed it on other things.

And Ultra Magnus had backed off, unquestionably giving Ratchet the space he usually needed when he was dealing with any kind of internal conflict.

That was also what made things so hard. Ultra Magnus had done nothing to deserve the way Ratchet was feeling toward him. Yet, Ratchet still felt it.

Perhaps he was more at the mercy of his own internal processes than he would like to think. Perhaps everyone was?

Or maybe it was just him. Maybe there was something wrong with him? Ratchet was not sure. After all, Ultra Magnus was only the first mech Ratchet had been with.

Or rather, Ultra Magnus was the first mech Ratchet had been with long-term. But the remainder was a different story for a different place, and not really applicable here.

That was also part of the reason Ratchet had avoided bringing the issue up to Ultra Magnus—because Ratchet did not know if the problem was within himself, and he did not want to cause any unnecessary stress to a mech whom he did genuinely care about.

Then why was this so hard? They had been seeing each other for two vorns. Surely it did pain Ultra Magnus to know that Ratchet was fighting an internal battle that he did not wish to discuss with him. Ratchet was not even sure if Ultra Magnus had legitimately believed Ratchet's explanation for his increasingly distant behavior, or if he had seen right through the lie but had chosen to ignore it.

That was another thing Ratchet could not bring up. Not because he felt that Ultra Magnus would not give him the benefit of the doubt as far as why he had failed to tell him the truth, but because it would certainly hurt Ultra Magnus to know the ultimate reason why he had done it. Primus, everything was so intertwined with everything else... It was taxing Ratchet's reserves just to try to sort it all out, and he was already tired from his long orn in the med bay. He shifted his weight on the berth, rolling onto his side to face the neutral-colored wall of the quarters he shared with Ultra Magnus.

Perhaps he just needed to try harder? Maybe that would—

Ultra Magnus's voice suddenly broke through the silence. "Ratchet, you're still awake?"

Pushing his thoughts aside, Ratchet rolling over to face Ultra Magnus. Ultra Magnus was too kind to him, bringing it up as a question simply to ease into the conversation. He never tried to make things difficult for Ratchet. Quite the opposite, actually. He would do whatever he could to make things easier for him.

Ratchet met Ultra Magnus's optics, which shown bright blue in the dim room. "Yes, I'm still awake."

Ultra Magnus had previously always referred to him as 'Doctor', only using Ratchet's given name once they had gotten involved with each other. But even to this orn, Ultra Magnus still only called him 'Ratchet' in private, and maintained the use of his proper title in public as a sign of respect. Ultra Magnus really was traditional in that way.

Ultra Magnus watched him steadily, his gaze softening. "Long orn at work?"

"More or less," Ratchet replied. "It's been a long decaorn."

And it had been. For a lot of reasons.

Ultra Magnus nodded his understanding. "I kind of thought so. You haven't been recharging well."

Ratchet smiled slightly in return. That was like Ultra Magnus, to always notice when someone else was having trouble with something. He was not unlike Optimus Prime in that manner.

"I'm sorry if I've been keeping you up," Ratchet responded after a moment. It was the only thing he could think to say, and he did hope he had not been disrupting Ultra Magnus too much. He had been trying not to.

Ultra Magnus reached out and lightly touched Ratchet's shoulder, smiling to reassure him. "That wasn't what I was trying to say."

Ratchet let out a faint sigh before glancing away. Ultra Magnus was so good to not put too much pressure on him, to instead wait until Ratchet was ready to discuss whatever was on his mind. But Ratchet had not budged this time, and considering that it was now affecting Ratchet's recharge cycle, Ultra Magnus was understandably concerned.

"Ratchet," Ultra Magnus said to regain his attention, waiting until Ratchet looked at him before he continued. "Is it something you want to talk about?"

Ratchet thought about it for a moment, pushing himself up onto his elbows to better hold a conversation and finding his frame already stiff from just the few joors he had been lying down. "Primus," he cursed lightly, talking to himself more than anyone else. "I shouldn't feel this old."

Ultra Magnus merely smiled patiently, waiting for Ratchet to continue when he was ready.

Ratchet pursed his lip plates. "Magnus, I… I don't know what's bothering me. I'm trying to figure it out, but I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Fair enough," Ultra Magnus replied, some relief in his voice. "If there is anything I can help with, or something I can do, just know that you can always come to me. I will help however I can."

Ratchet smiled. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

If only he could go to Ultra Magnus with this, but Ratchet needed to figure out for himself what was going on first. How could he possibly talk to Ultra Magnus—or anyone else, for that matter—if he himself was not even sure what the problem was?

But for now, it could wait. Ratchet already felt better having discussed even that small amount with Ultra Magnus, and that would hopefully be enough to help ease Ratchet's mind for at least a little while. It was rather strange at times, how fickle his emotions could be… He had always noticed it, but it had never really been this prominent before.

But that too could wait. After all, Ratchet had been dealing with it his entire life. Or maybe that would be a starting point to try to figure this out?

 _Tomorrow_ , Ratchet had to forcibly remind himself. Tonight he just wanted to not have to worry about anything.

It was a wonder he had made it as a medic, considering how high-stress he was at times.

 _Then stop thinking about all that scrap, you fragging idiot_.

Ratchet ran a hand down his face and cleared his thoughts, glancing at Ultra Magnus who had apparently been watching him this whole time. But there was no judgment in Ultra Magnus's gaze, only concern with Ratchet's well-being.

The concern that had become so familiar to Ratchet in the last two vorns, as had many other things. Ratchet had come to rely on that familiarity more and more, seeking out Ultra Magnus whenever life proved to be more difficult than Ratchet could handle alone.

Like it did now. And despite the nature of the conflict this time, Ratchet still found himself needing that same familiarity. He reached out to Ultra Magnus, pulling himself closer to the blue armor. It contrasted starkly with Ratchet's yellow.

Ultra Magnus wordlessly put his arm around him, stroking the plating on Ratchet's back much like one would do to comfort a youngling. He had seemingly learned that Ratchet was not always one for words, oftentimes needing only to feel that someone understood him.

But this time, Ratchet felt that he needed more than that. He pulled himself even closer to Ultra Magnus, resting his hands on Ultra Magnus's chest plating.

Ultra Magnus glanced at him. "Ratchet, are you sure you want to do this? You could use the opportunity to recharge."

"I know," Ratchet admitted, curling up as close to Ultra Magnus as he could. He really could use the opportunity to recharge, however he had the orn off tomorrow anyway. He could catch up on recharge then.

That, and he needed to do this. He needed to know the connection was still there.

"I want this," Ratchet continued, the pale light from the window washing over his frame. "I'm sure."


	2. Chapter 2

Ratchet woke up to the shrill ping of a communications request. He muted it immediately and tossed off his thermal blanket, feeling as if trying to catch up on recharge for even a single orn must be too much for him to ask of the universe.

Well, he did partially have himself to blame this time, but... Primus, could he not have _one_ orn off without getting woken up so early?

Ratchet did not bother to check whom it was from yet, instead rolling over onto his side on the berth and waiting for his sluggish systems to boot up. Ultra Magnus had already left, his side of the berth not even the slightest bit warm yet indicating that it had been a while ago. Ratchet had not even heard him leave, but then again, Ultra Magnus always tried to be quiet in the morning. And Ratchet had really been tired.

 He still was, but he knew he needed to see whom the request was from. It could be something important. Maybe even something from Optimus Prime. He accessed it, reading the name of the sender.

_Mirage_.

No, it was not Optimus Prime. With some reluctance, Ratchet accepted the request. “This is Ratchet.” 

“ _Ratchet_ ,” Mirage’s energetic voice came over the comm link with barely a moment’s delay. “ _I’m sorry to bother you_ _first thing in the morning_ _, but are you_ _available_ _by chance_ _?_ ”

“This is my orn off,” Ratchet replied, though he made an effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He had no problem getting called back to the med bay for emergencies, but if this was not one, he would really rather have his free time to himself. After all, this was his only scheduled orn off this decaorn and he needed some time away from the med bay. As it was, he practically lived there.

“ _I know it is_ ,” Mirage replied, “ _which is why I’m sorry to bother you with this, but I wanted to ask if you_ _woul_ _d be willing to do an intake exam on a Decepticon that_ _was captured last night._ _Red Alert_ _and First Aid are busy attending_ _to_ _the_ _injured Autobots_.”

Ratchet paused a moment before hauling his heavy frame up off the berth and into a sitting position, covering his optics with one hand to block the still too-bright light that was pouring in from the window. There was no way he was going to be able to go back to recharge now, but that did not mean his systems had adjusted to it being morning yet. “Why not have one of the junior medics do it?”

“ _None of the junior medics feel comfortable doing it,_ ” Mirage responded.

That came as a surprise to Ratchet. “What? Why not? They’ve done it before.”

“ _Actually,_ _t_ _his one_ _i_ _s pretty intimidating_ ,” Mirage explained. “ _It took_ _three of us_ _to get him in the cell, and that’s after_ _he suffered_ _battle injuries that include_ _d_ _a broken arm, a chest_ _injury_ _, and a_ _fairly_ _deep_ _gash_ _across his face_ _. He might even be blind on that side_.”

Ratchet cocked his head to the side, even though no one was there to see the gesture. “All that and it still took three of you?”

That must have been a very formidable Decepticon indeed, and Ratchet was mildly disappointed that he had not been on field duty last night to see the capture. Not that he had not seen plenty of Decepticons get captured before, but it was not very often that a single one of them gave them that much trouble. It would have been impressive to see the take-down on that one. Not being much of a fighter himself, Ratchet was always impressed by the sheer skill of some of the Autobot warriors.

“ _Yeah,_ _it took three of us_ ,” Mirage continued. “ _A_ _ctually, four_. _We had to call in another_ _mech_ _when he managed to down Bulkhead_.”

Four mechs? Primus... Ratchet could see now why none of the junior medics had wanted to do it. “It sounds like he fought you pretty hard.”

“ _Yeah, he did_.” Mirage waited a moment, then queried Ratchet again. “ _So w_ _ill you help?_ _I normally wouldn’t say this for a Decepticon, but_ _I think he should be seen. He took quite a_ _beating and we aren’t in the business of allowing fellow Cybertronians to suffer_ _._ ”

Ratchet let out a heavy sigh, swinging his legs over the edge of the berth. He could not believe he was even _considering_ doing this, but Mirage was absolutely right. Regardless of whether this mech deserved it or not, they could not simply allow him to suffer. They had to be better than that. Otherwise, they would be no different than the Decepticons. “Is he stable?" 

“ _He appears to be._ _He’s alert and oriented and all that_.”

Ratchet took another moment to think it over, even though he already knew what his answer was going to be. “Fine. Just let me wash up and then I’ll head that way.”

“ _Thank_ _s_ _, Ratch._ _I’ll meet you in the brig when you’re ready._ ”

Ratchet sent an acknowledgement and then closed the comm, still sitting on the end of the berth. He wanted nothing more than to climb back under that thermal blanket and spend the rest of the orn there, but it seemed that a medic’s work really was never done. Perhaps next decaorn he could have an entire orn off.

And if this was his only assignment for the orn, it was really not that bad. He could be back here and back on the berth in less than an hour.

Sometimes, Ratchet felt as if he should be doing more around the quarters than he did. Ultra Magnus did most of the tidying up, or fetching things that they needed, while Ratchet was usually content to simply come back and then not do much of anything.

But his job was exhausting. Not that he doubted that Ultra Magnus’s was too, but perhaps Ultra Magnus was better able to handle it. He always seemed to have the energy to get done whatever needed to get done, whereas Ratchet simply did not. Perhaps when they had a few more medics trained in, it would be easier. But until then, Ratchet had his work cut out for him. He could only hope that this Pit-spawned war would not last for decavorns. Otherwise, he quite enjoyed being a medic.

Ratchet pushed himself to his pedes, glancing around the room. The walls were a pale blue that he and Ultra Magnus had picked out together, intended to invoke a sense of calm. The decorations were sparse, attributable to the fact that neither of them spent a considerable amount of time here and both were rather practical in their choice of furnishings. There was a nightstand on Ratchet’s side of the berth, for his datapad and medical reference guides should he get called out in the middle of the night, and a desk on the other side of the room for Ultra Magnus’s tactical maps and related materials. There were also a few extra chairs should he have need of a meeting space in his own quarters.

Ultra Magnus was a good mech, and prepared to give the ultimate sacrifice if it meant saving the life of another. Ratchet never knew from orn to orn if he would see Ultra Magnus again.

Which was why it hurt even more that he had been having mixed emotions about him. He felt ashamed about it, but at the same time he felt powerless to stop it. Perhaps he needed to... see someone? Be evaluated?

But it could wait, for now. Ratchet took a step across the room, grabbing his medical kit and heading to the door. He locked it on his way out, then headed down the hallway to the wash racks.

He used to have quarters that had a private wash rack built into the room, but then was when he was in training. He would not mind having that now, though. Not that it mattered much.

Finally arriving at the wash racks, Ratchet dropped his medical kit outside the door and stepped inside. He was alone, which he was grateful for, if only because he liked his privacy. It was loud enough in his own mind; he preferred it if others were not adding to it.

Ratchet turned on the solvent, washing the dust and grime off his frame. At least yellow was not really a hard color to keep clean, although he did find himself showering nearly every orn. It may be a bit much compared to most, and he did have to be careful not to over-scrub the fine decals on his paint, but he did like to feel clean. And he enjoyed the solitude, since it was often the only time of the orn he could be completely alone.

But it only lasted a few breems. Ratchet turned off the solvent and grabbed a towel, drying off most of his frame before stepping out of the wash rack to finish the rest. Depending on how busy his orn was, he might end up doing this again at the end of the orn. Not that he would mind that. 

Just before stepping back out into the hallway, Ratchet opened up a private comm to let Mirage know he was on his way. Then he opened the door and grabbed his medical kit.

He was curious to see this Decepticon for himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Mirage had described the Decepticon to Ratchet in detail as they descended the stairs to the brig. He said the mech was as dark as an oil spill, which had afforded him a great advantage in the after-joors brawl of last night. He also displayed an enormous amount of both firepower and brawn, enough to potentially rival that of even a Prime, though each calculated blow or shot he dealt to one of his adversaries was delivered with such precision—and intention, with not so much as a single movement being wasted—that it also suggested a very high level of motor control and intelligence. This was certainly a mech that knew not only what he was doing, but also how to do it well.

_Frighteningly_ well, from what Mirage said. Which was why it was surprising that the mech had not caught the attention of the Autobots earlier. Had they simply not noticed him? Or had he, for some reason, been downplaying his skills and abilities in order to not draw attention? And for what purpose? With Decepticons, there was always a purpose.

But it did not matter now, as the Autobots now had the mech in custody. And he was, in fact, in the most secure cell in this brig. The one that had been designed to hold Megatron should the Autobots ever manage to capture him alive. Ratchet was still unsure of whether or not he desired that outcome, though he did have to admit that he was one to support due process and fair treatment in all circumstances.

However, if it so happened that Megatron fell in battle, Ratchet would not be too terribly upset about it. It was terrible to think that way as a medic, he knew, but Megatron had done worse things than simply think. As had those who so blindly and mindlessly followed him. Ratchet did not understand how anyone could not see that situation for what it really was. Yet somehow, Megatron had the most followers. Ratchet had inwardly—though not seriously, as he knew the opportunity would never present itself—wanted to ask one why.

Though now, as Ratchet stood with Mirage in front of the cell housing the Decepticon prisoner he was here to attend to, he could not help but at least entertain the idea that perhaps he could at some point speak with this Decepticon about why he had aligned with Megatron.

But as Ratchet cast a cursory glance into the cell, the answer to that question seemed obvious—the mech was not _as_ intimidating as Mirage had described.

He was _more_ so.

His plating was black, jet black with only the dried blue streaks of energon to add any color to it. And he was covered with wounds. Some were new and some were not, a myriad old scars littering his frame in between the fresh injuries he must have sustained last night. His forearm appeared to be broken, though his upper arm was chained to the wall. Ratchet could not see the mech’s damaged optic as that side was facing away from him, though he did not doubt that it had been a severe injury as he could even now see the slight trickle of energon dripping off the far side of his face.

Ratchet knew he was going to need to get a better look at that, but he kept his distance for the time being. He did not feel like being spit on this orn, even if the Decepticon so far seemed to be ignoring his Autobot visitors. That might change when they stepped closer.

Ratchet leaned toward Mirage, keeping his voice low. “What do we know about him?”

Mirage answered quietly. “Not much. We’re still waiting for intelligence to get a hit on his identity. Obviously he isn’t talking. His weapons were disabled in the field so you don’t have to worry about that. Other than that, you know as much about him as I do.”

That was not much. But Ratchet did not really need much to care for the mech. “All right. And I’m assuming he’s secure?”

“Of course.”

Ratchet nodded at that. It was not that he doubted that any hostile patient would be secured before he even arrived, he simply had a habit of making sure his work area was safe. He took a step toward the cell and glanced again at the mech inside. Ratchet always started with a visual exam, especially with a Decepticon. Because sometimes, that was as far as you could get with them.

“Let me know when you want me to open the cell,” Mirage offered, otherwise standing back out of the way. “He’s chained pretty good. No chance he will get out of it in his current state anyway.”

“Now,” Ratchet responded, idly counting the number of ventilations the mech was taking. The mech was maybe a little shocky, though not fairing as badly as some other mechs might have in his situation.

Still, none of those major injuries were going to heal correctly without medical intervention, especially if the mech was running on less-than-enough energon.

Mirage stepped forward and punched his entry code into the keypad mounted beside the cell door, which opened with a hiss. He then stepped inside, his bright red armor casting a warm glow on the drab walls of the cell. He armed his blaster and pointed it at the Decepticon’s head.

To Ratchet’s surprise, the Decepticon still did not make any move at all. He did not even look up at the weapon that was now trained on him.

Ratchet walked up to the cell and stepped inside, then he knelt on the ground a short distance in front of the Decepticon. The Decepticon was chained to the wall in a sitting position, and Ratchet did not see the need to loom over him as if he did not have any respect at all. He was a medic first and foremost and he had been taught to treat all patients with respect.

What surprised Ratchet most when he got a good look at his patient was that, despite being a gravely injured prisoner of war that was now chained to a concrete wall in the center of enemy territory, the mech was oddly dignified. He still maintained a proper posture and he was nothing if not composed, as if anything could be going on around him and he would hardly bat an optic. Indeed, he merely looked up to glance at Ratchet with a cool detachment that betrayed nothing of what might be going on in his processor. It was a level of self-command that was worthy of respect, no matter what side one was fighting on.

It also told Ratchet that the mech was not completely blind. Ratchet directed his gaze to the mech’s right optic, which was completely shattered owing to a large gash that ran diagonally across his face. If the mech could see out of it at all, it would only be blurry shapes and colors.

Ratchet then reached out to touch the mech’s chest, which appeared to be crushed at least slightly, however he stopped when the Decepticon tensed.

Ratchet also heard the hum of Mirage powering up his weapon.

“Easy,” Ratchet said, directed at both of them though he kept his gaze on his patient. “I just need to take a look at this.”

The Decepticon continued to look at him, though now it was not with detachment but apprehension. He seemed to be calculating, his gaze one of intelligence despite the intense and frightening red glow of his crimson optics.

Well, if he was intelligent—and Ratchet was sure that the mech understood what he was saying, given that there was no visible audial damage—then Ratchet should be safe taking a calculated risk.

He reached out again to attempt to palpate the injury.

“Just let me see...”


	4. Chapter 4

“Just let me see...”

Despite the almost palpable level of tension radiating off of the injured Decepticon and the loud hum of Mirage’s weapon waiting to be fired, Ratchet still reached out to touch the Decepticon.

If it was going to turn into a fray, it was going to do so now.

But when Ratchet's fingertips finally met the dented and damaged metal, nothing happened. The Decepticon merely stayed still, though Ratchet could feel the slight—too slight even, as if it was painful to move—movement of his chest plates as he circulated air to cool himself.

Which was not a surprise, as the panels felt hot to Ratchet’s touch.

“Mirage, could you put that away?” Ratchet addressed his comrade, the heat of the weapon merely adding to the discomfort. “I think he’ll be fine.”

Mirage nodded. “If you say so.” Then he lifted his blaster from the mech’s head and powered it down.

Ratchet felt relieved immediately. He did not like to work with any kind of weapon so close to his face, and he could only imagine how the Decepticon felt having the heat of that right on him. The mech was already overheated, and Ratchet’s fingers probably felt ice-cold to him.

Which brought Ratchet back to the task at hand—assessing the amount of damage. Ratchet lightly ran his fingers over the crushed metal, trying to determine how stable—or not—it was. But the panels did not move, meaning at the very least Ratchet did not have to worry about anything shifting in a way that could potentially cause more damage. However, it also meant anything pinched underneath was going to stay that way until Ratchet did something about it.

Ratchet removed his hand from the Decepticon’s chest and grabbed his medical kit, sliding it closer before pulling out his scanner. He had had this one since before medical school, but it had always served him well and so he had seen no need to upgrade it. The better ones were not of much more value in a field setting anyway.

As Ratchet lifted the scanner to start at the Decepticon’s head, the Decepticon looked away from him and focused his gaze idly on the floor. That was fine with Ratchet, who was not particularly fond of being watched while he worked. Most of his patients seemed to understand that inherently, and Ratchet for his part also did not spend any undue time merely staring at his patients themselves. He was always focused specifically on the injury or system he was assessing, even if it was a broad one. And as Ratchet started scanning the Decepticon from his head down, he did another quick visual in case he missed something earlier.

That optic would certainly need to have the lens replaced, and the gash along this face welded. The damage on the chest would probably require removing the panels entirely, but if the mech would not stand for that, then merely pulling out some of the deeper dents and leaving the rest for his own systems to repair should be enough. That forearm would need to be splinted.

And, something new Ratchet noticed, the mech had flecks of paint missing in a thin and uneven line around both wrists.

Ratchet did not spend too much time looking at it, but he did record a mental image of it. He then sent the image to Mirage, along with a private message.

_Who did this?_

Continuing with his assessment, Ratchet glanced over at Mirage just long enough to see if he got the message.

Mirage seemed to be reading it.

_It wasn’t one of us_ , Mirage responded. _We never had cuffs on him_.

Ratchet glanced back at his patient, who still had his gaze fixed on the floor. It was that moment that Ratchet was struck with the sudden realization that there was much more to this mech than he had initially assumed.

Most Decepticons would be hurling insults at him, glaring at him, or doing any number of other things to be a pain in his aft, regardless of the fact that he was actually trying to help them.

Even if it was just because that was his job.

But this Decepticon was different. He acted more like Ratchet was not even there—like none of them were there, really—and he seemed to have nothing in the world better to do than simply wait, as if he was not borderline in shock.

Ratchet got everything he needed to start an IV line, not bothering to explain what he was doing since a POW did not have any say in the matter anyway. However, Ratchet was curious if he could get the mech to talk. From what Mirage had told him, the mech had not said anything to anyone since he was brought here.

Starting the line in the mech’s wrist, Ratchet posed a simple question. “What is your name, soldier?”

The Decepticon glanced at him but said nothing, and after a few seconds he shifted his gaze to the wall.

Nope. He was not going to talk.

And why would he? For all Ratchet knew, the mech was judging him as an Autobot just as Ratchet had judged him as a Decepticon. He probably thought that Ratchet was only out to get the information so they could use it for whatever they saw fit, not because he was genuinely curious and wanted to be able to address him by his proper name.

Ratchet looked again at Mirage, who waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Ratch. I’m sure we’ll get a hit on his designation soon enough.”

Ratchet nodded, though that had not exactly been what he was going for. The mech probably thought now that he had been right about Ratchet, and that not talking had indeed been the prudent thing to do. And while the latter was always a good assumption in situations like these, the former was not true—Ratchet was also different from most of his kind.

_Listen_ , Ratchet sent in a very localized comm, one that the Decepticon would be able to pick up on but that even Mirage would be too far away to hear, _you don’t trust me and I get that. But if you need anything, my serial number is AE229759. You can use it to contact me anytime._ _Being a medic means I do my job regardless of factional affiliations_.

Ratchet left it at that, not having anything else to say and not sure what else he could say. The Decepticon for his part gave no indication that he had received the message, though Ratchet was sure that he would have. None of his communication systems had any damage, and he certainly could understand Cybertronian.

Whether or not he actually attempted to contact Ratchet would remain to be seen, and although Ratchet did not really expect him to, in a way he hoped that he would. At the very least, it would help satisfy Ratchet’s own curiosity.

But if the mech did not, it would not matter. Ratchet continued his work, taking care to address the worst of the injuries first in case the Decepticon decided at any point to no longer cooperate.

However, he never did. Nor did he look at Ratchet again.


	5. Chapter 5

Ratchet walked down the long, empty hallway, his medical kit heavy in his hand. He barely glanced up at the passing doors and intersections, all alike and indistinct save for the small gold placards or painted letters adorning each one, his gaze instead unfocused though roughly directed at the empty air space in front of his feet. His knees ached slightly but he ignored it. After all, that could hardly be considered pain compared to what some Autobot warriors went through.

Or Decepticon prisoners.

It sill surprised Ratchet how much damage that Decepticon had sustained, yet he had not hurled a single insult at Ratchet or any of the other Autobots. Not even a grunt of pain had escaped the Decepticon’s vocoder in the entire time Ratchet had worked with him, which had left Ratchet with nothing to gauge the Decepticon’s pain level except to watch for even the slightest hitch in his vents. It was that kind of body language that Ratchet had learned to rely on in cases like this, because for some reason there were a lot of mechs that did not seem to want to tell him how much pain they were in.

It happened all the time. Like an injury was something to hide.

But it did not matter. Ratchet was still good at his job, and good at knowing what his patients could and could not handle when it came to interventions. In a way, Ratchet almost enjoyed that aspect of the job as much as the medical part—the being able to read another individual part, and determine what was going on in their processor and how to interact with them.

However, Ratchet had had no idea what was going on in the Decepticon’s processor. The mech did not fit any of the models Ratchet had stored away in his own processor, and so he had been at a bit of a loss as far as how to get the mech to communicate with him at all.

With most Decepticons, it was easy. They simply would not stop talking.

But that was enough worrying about Decepticons for the time being. After all, it was supposed to be Ratchet’s orn off, and the idea of crawling back into the berth to catch up on recharge—and perhaps trying to forget, if even for a moment, that there was a war going on—was a very appealing one. Whatever happened in the interim, he could trust his fellow Autobots to handle.

Ratchet idly turned the corner that would eventually lead him to his quarters, the path so familiar that he hardly had to put any thought into it, but suddenly a blow to his chest knocked him backwards.

Ratchet lost his footing and fell, reaching out to catch himself but instead jamming his wrist into the hard tile with a sickening crack. He dropped his medical kit as pain lanced up his arm, the small box spilling its contents all over the floor.

“Primus,” Ratchet cursed quietly, clutching his wrist with his other hand. He then pushed himself to his feet, glancing around to see what, or who, had hit him.

To Ratchet’s surprise, the silver form of Jazz was also pushing himself up off the floor.

“Whoa, Ratch,” Jazz said jokingly as he hopped to his feet. “Weren’t you watching where you were going?”

Ratchet straightened himself up, dropping both his hands to his sides. “Weren’t you?” he replied, though not with any anger. He simply could not be mad at Jazz—the mech was always so casual and easygoing.

Jazz smiled. “No, I suppose I wasn’t. My apologies.”

Ratchet waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It was my fault as much as yours.”

“Fair enough,” Jazz replied with another smile, reaching down and picking up Ratchet’s medical scanner. “At least let me help you pick up your stuff.”

“I can get it, Jazz,” Ratchet responded calmly, kneeling down to grab a bundle of welding rods but wincing when he tried to use his hand. Thankfully, Jazz did not see that. Ratchet used his other hand.

Jazz dropped several items back into the medical kit, then asked, “I thought you were off this orn?”

Ratchet huffed lightly. “Yeah. So did I.”

“So what did they call you in for?” Jazz asked.

Ratchet pursed his lip plates. “Intake exam on a Decepticon. Apparently everyone else was either too busy or too afraid to do it.”

“Oh,” Jazz responded as he glanced at him, “you mean Ironhide?”

Ratchet glanced at him, gathering more items off the floor with his good hand. “Who?”

“Ironhide, the new Decepticon prisoner,” Jazz supplied. “Pretty much all jet black? Pretty stocky? Looks like Unicron himself.”

Ratchet cocked his head, surprised that Jazz had tracked that information down. Though, it should not have been much of a surprise—after all, Jazz was the head of Autobot security. “That’s the one. Mirage said we didn’t know his designation.”

“Just got a hit on it a little bit ago,” Jazz explained, picking up the last of the items and zipping up the medical kit. “We’re still working on a history, but at least we have that much.”

Ratchet nodded, accepting the medical kit from Jazz. “Thank you, Jazz. So, tell me, have we gotten him to say anything?”

Jazz shook his head. “Not a word. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, though. We just need to figure out what he wants.”

“And he knows we know his designation?” Ratchet asked.

“Sure he does,” Jazz replied. “As soon as I found out I tried to communicate with him, at least let him know that we knew who he was and give him a heads up on what was going to happen next, but he didn’t seem to care much. And I was nice to him and all.”

“So was I,” Ratchet added. “He also didn’t seem to care.”

Jazz shrugged. “Didn’t seem to, but I’m guessing he did. Primus knows his own kind would treat him worse.”

Ratchet thought back to the marks on the Decepticon’s wrists, the ones that had apparently been there before any Autobot contact. “I’m sure so.”

“He’s jaded, I’m sure. We just need to crack him.”


End file.
